


Wolves Howl In These Bedtime Stories

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Druid Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, POV Second Person, Pack Bonding, Revenge, Wolf Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 19:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: You were ten when you realized that most mothers teach their sons to bake cookies and your mother taught you to brew spells and potions, protective and defensive andstrong





	Wolves Howl In These Bedtime Stories

You were six when you realized that not all towns were like yours, that you were not as human as you believed. That the magic that made your bones shake and the ground swell with life and made the air crackle when you shrieked with laughter was  _ real _ . 

That the howling in the forest that you mimicked at night was magic. 

You were six, when she sat you down and touched your cheek and smiled, soft and sad and told you who you were and what you were destined for, and it felt like a dream, like a story, one of the fairytales your Papa told you when the sun set and the wolves howled and you curled against her side, wide eyed and happy and safe. 

~*~

You were eight when you met your wolves. 

You clung to her, and she smiled as they swarmed around you, fur clad under a full moon. They were rambunctious and happy, and you giggled as a gray with bright blue eyes licked your cheek. 

You were quiet and still when the alpha came to you, pressing against your mother’s side fondly before she sniffed you delicately and took your wrist in her fangs, her eyes glowing red as power sparked against your fingertips. 

The alpha bit down, just enough that you wanted to flinch and the wolves howled, a joyous song of promise and pack and home, as she held your hand and glowed with pride. 

~*~

You were ten when she begins to teach you and you realize she always has. That the stories, of wolves and protectors, of magic and bonds and power, were not the bedtime stories your friend Scott hears, and that playing with sparks and ash is not what children do. 

You were ten when you realized that most mothers teach their sons to bake cookies and your mother taught you to brew spells and potions, protective and defensive and  _ strong _ . 

You were ten when Talia Hale entered your house, a familiar gray wolf at her heels, and taught you how much you still have to learn. 

You love it. Now, when your wolves sing in the night, you can pick out their voices--high and bossy Laura, deep solid Derek, Cora’s excited song. There is James, melodic and steady behind his mate’s alpha song and others--and his gray wolf, the only one he hasn’t seen in his human skin, sharp and clear and haunting. 

Now, when you walk through the streets of Beacon Hills, you are shadowed by a wolf or a Hale, and the people in town watch you with something like pride and fear in their eyes. 

You were ten when you realized what the bite Talia gave you means, what the niggling threads of thought that aren’t your own mean--when you tug on one sharply and five minutes later, Derek bursts into your yard, snarling and eyes glowing, searching for a threat that doesn’t exist, and the rest of the pack spilled in after him. They were furious and your mother scolded you, but your gray wolf laughed and lay across your legs, trapping you with his warmth and amusement. 

You learn that even when you are alone, the pack is with you, and it feels less lonely, walking through the halls of your school, an emissary marked by the pack and ostracized by your peers.

Your gray wolf comes to you, at the school, most afternoons and snarls away the other children before he silently escorts you home.

You were ten when you realized that the Hales  _ matter. _

~*~

You were eleven when you woke in the middle of the night, screaming as the bonds in your mind, the bonds to your  _ wolves _ and your  _ mother _ shattered. You screamed until your voice gave out and magic blew the lights in your house and Melissa, summoned by your frantic father, sedates you. 

~*~ 

You forget, for a time, how old you are and what matters. You only know that you are alone, your mind a gaping empty hole. Sometimes, when you’re asleep, you dream you can feel them still. Your wolves and the power that ties you to this land. 

You dream you can feel your mother still. 

But you wake up screaming, and alone, and the stories are just that--stories. 

You drift, angry and lost and alone. Your father holds you when he’s drunk and crying, and it’s the only time you feel  _ safe _ , but as time slides past and he stops drinking, he spends more time researching, more time  _ looking _ . 

It terrifies you. Something--someone--killed your pack and your mother and he’s chasing them, and you are too weak to protect him. 

You sleep on his floor and shake when he leaves and you pray to every god your mother taught you about that they will keep him safe. 

In your dreams, you cling to the gossamer strands of pack and beg them to come back, but you wake up alone and the forest is silent, always silent. 

~*~ 

You are thirteen when you open your front door and Kate Argent swings into your home. 

You are thirteen, when she shoots your father and smiles at you, all sharp false sympathy and murmurs,  _ sorry, sweetie. He didn’t know when to let sleeping dogs lie.  _

You are thirteen, when she saunters out, and leaves you with your dead father and power that makes you shake and when you scream, it shatters the windows and the lightbulbs and your eardrums, but it doesn’t matter because no one is left to listen to you scream. 

~*~ 

When you were six your mother told you stories about the wolves in the woods around Beacon Hills and taught you about the magic that lived in your veins and in the land. But you're fourteen and alone and angry and the magic is gone and so are your wolves. 

~*~

When you are fifteen, you dream of pack and you sit with Scott at lunch and you don’t fight as much, anymore, because Beacon Hills remembers the Hales and care for you, but you know that memories are short, and you cannot afford to lose their goodwill. 

You ache with loneliness that Scott doesn’t understand and you smile at Lydia Martin but it’s fake--every laugh and joke and smile is fake. You think everything has been, since the night when you were eleven and your pack ran around you in the woods and your gray wolf slept at your feet under the light of the full moon. 

~*~

You are fifteen still, when you feel the bright heat of pack burning in your mind and you shiver with it, faint and weak but  _ there _ and  _ real _ . 

~*~

You learn. You are sixteen and brilliant, strange in your class of ordinary boys and girls but still, they like you. You are a pet, a mascot, a forgotten orphan and they don’t watch you. 

No one in this town remembers to watch you. 

You stalk the woods at night and whisper your mother’s stories as the land wakes to your touch and lightning cracks across the sky and you  _ howl _ because wolves don’t fill the night with song anymore, but you can. 

And maybe, maybe--you press the hot alive bond in your mind--they will answer. When you are strong enough, and know how to kill Kate Argent, your pack will come for you. 

~*~

You are sixteen and angry, and  _ strong _ . You are alone in your apartment, when you feel one of the three bonds tethering you to a dead pack  _ snap _ .

For a long time, you sit in silence, and watch the moon, and let the broken bond steal away that strength, for just a moment. 

There are two now, one shining and strong, one weak, barely a thread. 

You sit on the fire escape and whisper your mother’s stories to the wind and from very far away, you hear a wolf howl. 

~*~

You open your door.  You are confused and your best friend is bleeding and the Argents are in your town and you open your door. 

You have never seen your gray wolf in his human skin. After the fire that killed your pack and mother, you never dared hope that he was alive. 

“Stiles,” he says, and it’s warm and familiar and your pack bond is burning bright. 

You are seventeen when you meet Peter Hale. 

~*~

When you were eleven your family died, and when you were thirteen your father was murdered, but now you are seventeen and Peter is standing close enough to touch and Scott bears his bite, and you can feel it, feel Derek, the bond between you growing stronger as he comes closer. 

You remember the stories your mother told you--the ones about pack and protection and the power in the land, the way it protects it’s own. The way that pack is eternal and stronger together. 

You forgot. But as Peter sleeps on your couch and your rub the faded white scars on your wrist, you realize just how stupid that was. 

~*~

Peter is different. He isn’t the quiet laughing wolf that sat at your feet when you were a child and licked ice cream from your chin. 

But then, you are seventeen now and you are not the same boy who buried his laughter in gray fur and dozed against his soft sides. 

Maybe you have both changed and maybe you still fit together. 

~*~

Derek arrives as he always has--a furious burst of violence and thoughtlessness, panic that Peter snarls at and you draw him in, tuck the wild, exhausted wolf into your bed and press a runed stone against his neck, until the tension bleeds out of the wolf and he slumps, exhausted into the sheets and pillows. 

Peter watches you and there is a silent question there, in familiar blue eyes and you smile at him, slow and sure and cocky. 

~*~

You kill Kate Argent when you are twenty four and the summer is hot and bright, and the wind whispers your stories.

~*~ 

Peter is smart, you learn when you are eighteen and he tells you his plan. Smart and fearless and broken and you love him. 

He can feel it, and Derek can, a thick thread that twists with your pack bond. 

You remember the stories your mother told you, about emissaries and their alphas and you think this isn't what she meant, what she wanted for you. 

None of this is what you want. 

~*~ 

When you are eighteen you graduate and Peter smiles at you, and sends you away. 

You hate him for it, as you train with the druids and feel the tug of  _ your _ land, as you grow powerful and whispers begin, of the boy with a bat and a black wolf at his heels because even though Peter sent you away, he never sent you alone and Derek keeps close, even in the Nematons. 

You know why he did this, and sometimes, when you feel loneliness and lust swelling along the bond that ties you to him, still, always, you don't remember to hate him. 

You only remember that you miss him. 

~*~ 

You wake the Nematon when you are twenty one, rippling with power and control, your Alpha at your side, your pack of wolves ranged behind you, furclad. 

You know what the risk is. What you are exposing yourself and your land and your pack to. 

But you think of Kate’s twisted smile in your kitchen as your father's blood spread and the shattered bonds in your mind and the six years Peter lost to the fire. 

You cut your palm, deep and scarring, and wake the magic. 

~*~

You're twenty one and bleeding and he watches you with steady ice blue eyes. Derek stormed out, shouting about safety and cost and  _ it's too fucking much!  _ and you are torn between chasing him and your Alpha, his gaze heavy and the only steady thing in your life. 

You are twenty one and there is blood on your hands and you're bleeding and he asks you what you have waited ten years for him to ask.  _ Is it too much?  _

You bare your teeth and his eyes glow red as you snarl,  _ not while she is still breathing.  _

~*~

You are twenty-three when the Argents return to Beacon Hills, the whole messy tribe of them,  drawn by the supernatural and the flourishing pack. The wind whispers their arrival and you hear it in your wolves heartbeats, in the way they circle and snarl and Derek presses familiar and protective at your feet. 

You taste it in the mountain ash in the air and the wolfsbane burning against your throat. 

You see it in the people of your town, friendly people who sheltered and cared for you when your father was killed, who hears the wolves howling and never close their doors against the night, who fill up your bookstore and Erica’s cafe and watch strangers with territorial protectiveness. 

The Argents return to Beacon Hills and you smile at Peter, as hate and hope and longing sings through your bond and you don't know whose emotions belong to who anymore. 

You are his and he is yours and together you'll kill them all. 

~*~ 

In the summer of your twenty-fourth year, when the wolves are howling and the city of Beacon Hills is ripe with the scent of barbeque and contentment, there sharp electric scent of magic cuts through the air. 

Kate followed the trail you and Peter laid, the monsters tugged to your land by the power you woke, the Argents killed by your hand to push her rage, and it worked, it all worked. She took the pretty bait, and you wear the price of it on your skin, scars from the monsters you killed and the magic you wove, from the wolves you ran with, wild and young and unpredictable. 

There are scars too, that cannot be seen, the ones left by your dead pack and your murdered father and the years of waiting and loneliness. She stares at you, and you grin, wild and wiser than your twenty four years, the power of the druids and the nematon and  _ Beacon Hills _ thrumming through your veins and you are not the boy who crouched by your father’s dead body, and hated her. 

She smirks and whispers, her voice choked by your alpha’s claws at her throat,  _ should have killed you with your father.  _

You tilt your head and Peter snarls.  _ You should have let sleeping wolves lie, _ you murmur, before he kills her. 

~*~

You are twenty-four and for a decade you have waited for this moment, and for a lifetime, you have served the Hales, and now---

She is dead and Peter is walking away from you. 

You are twenty-four and lonely, and for the first time since your mother whispered to you about magic in your bones, the spark in your blood, you are afraid. 

~*~

Peter leaves Beacon Hills and you remember this, the drifting feeling of lonely and loss and for a time, you forget everything. 

Beacon Hills is a place, your mother told you, where legends aren’t just stories, and you are part of that, you are, but what do legends do when their stories are told and they are too young and stupid to die with them? 

~*~ 

You are drunk, on your twenty-sixth birthday, when something hot and familiar opens in your mind, and you shudder at the rawness of it, the want in it. It’s been more than a year since he left you and the pack bond between you dwindled to nothing, and still, you dream of him. 

You dream of walking with him through your land, and waking in his bed. 

You dream of his claws pressing into your hips as his teeth brush your throat and his cock pushes deep and hot and hard inside you. 

You dream of everything you wanted and he didn’t, he left you and Derek won’t tell you why or where he went, the wolves don’t know. 

You dream, sometimes, of leaving, like he did, and you wake from those dreams shaking and crying, grasping at the limp bond between you and him, and begging for him to come back. 

But this--this is different from your dreams, because it’s  _ real _ and you moan as you feel him, wrapped around you like you belong to him, like you have always belonged to him, and you whimper his name, whimper,  _ please, Peter, please, come back, I need you. _

When you come, it feels like a revelation, like you can reach out and touch him, smell him here when he isn’t but he  _ should be _ . 

When you come, you whimper, and arch up, desperate for his phantom touch, and whisper,  _ daddy, please  _ and you  _ feel _ him groan and come, snarling your name and spilling across his belly.

It feels right and wrong and crazy and steady, like everything you and Peter have always been. 

~*~ 

You are twenty-six, when Peter, fur clad and familiar, scratches at your door and you push  it open, and let your gray wolf back into your life. 

~*~ 

They whisper stories, in Beacon Hills, and you listen to them and Peter rolls his eyes when you recite them in bed, pressed naked next to him. But stories are important and you write them down, the stories you know because they are yours, and the ones that you don’t, because not everything whispered is true. 

One day you will hold your son, and teach him and train him, and Peter will hold his wrist lightly in his fangs. One day, your stories will be the legends and truths wrapped in myth that your children teach their babies. 

_ But not now, _ Peter promises, and pulls you close, kisses you until the stories fade, and there is only this. 

Only you and him and the wolves, howling in the night. 


End file.
